


Good is Not Nice

by ChocoChipBiscuit



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 3
Genre: Anal Fingering, Dirty Talk, F/M, Facials, Roleplay, Spanking, Vaginal Fingering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-01
Updated: 2015-06-01
Packaged: 2018-04-02 06:59:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,235
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4050601
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChocoChipBiscuit/pseuds/ChocoChipBiscuit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I see a man who isn’t nice, but could be real good. If your libido hasn’t shriveled in on itself in your old age.” Pops her gum, smiles. Rests a muddy boot on his lap, digs her toes to knead into the muscle. “Wanna play?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Good is Not Nice

She sits on the desk, props her muddy boots to the edge and her back against the bunker wall. Digs dirt from beneath her nails and spits on the floor. Good arc to it, plus distance— figures it’s a new personal record.

“Watch it, little girl,” Desmond growls. Years stripped away his voice, leaves him growling. Bares the savage. Tough man, though not as tough as he thinks he is. For all his talk about how the years have honed his skills while she’s just a ‘talented killer,’ she knows it would only take one burst with her minigun to splatter him across the floor. Maybe add a hit of Psycho or Buffout if she needs an edge.

But for all his assholery, she figures Desmond’s an okay guy. Better than the brain in a jar at least.

“Not ‘little girl,’ zombie.”

He snorts, rifles through papers in the drawer. Old stained papers hanging in neat folders, plus crisp text written in languages she recognizes but can’t read. A smattering of Chinese, even if she only knows a couple characters. Something that might be German. A wealth of Old World knowledge, preserved in this shambling modern age.

But she knows he’s trying to bridge the gap when he finally says, “Fine. Figure you’ve earned this. What should I call you?”

She grins like knives. “Try ‘ma’am.’”

“Hell no. You’re not even twenty.” Snorts, a dismissive cough turning to phlegm as he stubs his cigarette in the tray. The smoke lingers in the air, rich and queasy-sweet; some brand she's unfamiliar with. Centuries-old air filters whir and clink, unable to eliminate this foreign odor.

“Lynne, then.” Her nail catches a loose thread on her sleeve and she bites it free. ‘Lynne Chau’ is the full name, but she prefers holding back her surname. Feels like a little secret nestled between her ribs, last remnant of her father.

Desmond nods, setting the papers on the edge of the desk. Sits in the chair, one arm on the table. Only a few inches from her thigh, so she resists the urge to growl at him. Too close, too far, the electric heat of him prickles down her spine.

“Fine. Lynne.”

“Don’t wear it out now.”

He lets out a rusty laugh, tilting his head and making a big show of reading the documents. Except he spends too long on the page, and his eyes aren’t moving. “I used to get GNR out here. Heard about you before. Little saint from the vault. Took me a while to connect the name with the legend. Mouthy brat like you?”

“Karma don’t care how many cuss words I spit.” She thinks about scratching her nose, flicking snot at him. Except she actually likes his attitude, his lip. So instead she digs a pack of gum from her pocket, unwraps a powder-pink chew and pops it in her mouth. Offers him a stick, but he grimaces.

“Tobacco’s an adult’s chew. Not that bubblegum crap.” He turns in his chair, no more pretense at reading. The glasses make his eyes appear more focused than that usual milky ghoul look, and she wonders if it’s a sham. A pretended weakness, something to make him look sharp and present instead of some prewar professor scrabbling through what’s left of the world. “You sure aren’t the nice sweet thing I was expecting from Three Dog’s howls.”

“Nice is not the same as good.” She pops the gum against the roof of her mouth, gives a tooth-rotting smile. “If I stomp out the Pitt or rescue a merc crew, doesn’t matter if I drop a ‘fuck’ now and then.”

“So you think you’re ‘good’ then?”

“Someone’s gotta try. And when the choices are real obvious— blow up a town, deactivate a bomb— ‘good’ is a matter of survival.” She pulls the knife from her boot, examines her reflection in the blade. Grimaces at the dirt smeared under her eyes like warpaint, the sweat-tracks in the dust coating her forehead. Never a pin-up even back in the Vault, and even less reason to primp and preen out here. But hell, she never won a fight by relying on  _ charm _ . “‘Snot altruism. It’s practicality.”

“Not quite the bleeding heart Three Dog pegged you as.”

“He wants a hero. He sees what he wants to see.” She thinks about trimming her split ends, but feels too fussy to do in front of someone else. So she tucks the knife back in her boot and gives Desmond a raised eyebrow. “What do you see?”

“Trade you answer for answer,” he shoots back.

“Fine. You go first.” Hides her victory in the curve of her teeth, the bite of her tongue.

“I see a kid. Not,” he halts her, holding up his hand to forestall her angry words, "that you’re a little girl. But you’re still damn young. Doesn’t matter the guns and ammo, you’re a kid. Back at your age, I was still a wet behind the ears little snot in my first year of university.” He sits back, crosses his ankle over his knee in an elaborate show of nonchalance. “Your turn.”

“I see a man who isn’t  _ nice _ , but could be real  _ good _ . If your libido hasn’t shriveled in on itself in your old age.” Pops her gum, smiles. Rests a muddy boot on his lap, digs her toes to knead into the muscle. “Wanna play?”

He leans forward, his chest bare inches from her knee. Raises an eyebrow. “What kind of playing, Lynne?” Flicks a clump of dried mud off her laces.

“Bossy asshole like you could be fun. Play professor and student.” She dips her chin, grins with teeth and tucks her hand over his ear, thumb playing along the hard frame of his glasses. “A little dirty talk. A little rough. Bet you have a hell of a swing if you’re into spanking." He smiles at that, so she pushes forward before he can jump down the wrong path. "Just to make it clear though, I want you bossy and rough, but I’m not blowing you or letting you stick it in me.” There. All out on the table, since she figures a lazy man’s imagination is limited only to cramming his dick in a wet hole.

Fortunately, Desmond’s not lazy. An asshole, sure, but not a bore.

“Never figured you’d be some submissive girly type.” He sets his hand on her knee, but makes no move farther up her thigh. “Other limits?”

“Not  _ submissive _ . Not gonna simper and bat my eyes. Gonna fight and cuss, just so you know. I like the fight.” Fixes her gaze on his, catches the silhouette of her face in the lenses. “I like dirty talk, but no ‘daddy’ or ‘little girl’ shit. Also no ‘bitch,’ ‘slut,’ or ‘whore.’ ‘Dirty girl’ or ‘miss’ and ‘young lady’ are alright.” Runs her fingers through his scalp, catches her nails into the skin. He's cool to the touch, even though she sweats to be near him. Maybe a ghoul thing, maybe a 'sitting in a foggy seaside bunker' thing. “And sometimes ‘no’ is part of the fun. But if I call you by your actual fucking name, you better stop. Alright, professor?”

“Got it, young lady.” He cracks his knuckles and raises an eyebrow. “Right now?”

“Right here, right now, if you got the balls for it old man—  _ hey _ !” she yelps as he reaches up to grab her ear, yanking her forward so she tumbles across his lap. The metal legs of the chair scrape across the bunker floor as he pushes back with her.

“Ass off the table, young lady. Have some fucking dignity,” he growls. He steers her by pinching her earlobe between thumb and forefinger, forcing her to take short, quick steps while bent over.

“Fuck you!” She musters enough saliva to spit; hits his shoe instead of his knee.

“Not too old to give you a spanking, girl.” And he pulls, forces her face level with his and her heart jackhammers in her chest as he smiles. “I’ve been too lax on the discipline.”

“Professor, you don’t have the fucking  _ balls _ to tan my ass.” Fuck, that rush of heat to her groin, panties slick as he hauls her over his lap. Her hands dangle to the floor, ass up in the air and his left hand between her shoulders, the other raised back. That hand’s so tense, gripping the back of her shirt and tangled up in the sweat on her skin, only a moment’s warning before his other hand snaps through the air, hitting the curve of her ass where buttocks meet thighs. She shrieks despite herself, cheeks hot and body flushed, like a candle lit at both ends.

“What was that, cheeky girl?”

“Barely felt it, asshole. Gotta try harder than that if you’re gonna—  _ shit _ !” A hard smack, the strike muffled by the denim. Not enough padding on her pants, hardly any cushion, and she screams frustration. Tucks her elbows close, grabs his thigh. Desperate for any sort of grip, traction, something to brace herself against the next blow.

“Fucking insolence,” he growls, bending over to rasp his breath hot over her scalp. Shit. He’s gotta feel her heat through her jeans, resting his hand on that triangle of of space below her ass. “But you like it, don’t you? Dirty girl.” He snorts, thrusting his fingers hard between her thighs like he’s done this before. Rubs until he finds the clit, then just presses like he’s trying to anchor himself to her pubic bone. “God but you’re a slippery one. How hard do I have to beat you until it’s a punishment, not a reward?”

“Already enough of a punishment that I’ve gotta deal with  _ you _ ,” she spits, thrashing. Like trying to escape, except trying to get him to rub harder on her clit too.

He takes his cue, shoving his hand so she feels the pressure of his wrist against her ass. She crosses her ankles, clamping his fingers between her thighs and bucking against him. Now he goes from gripping her shirt to grabbing her hair, ragged nails catching against her scalp as he claws into the base of her ponytail. Pulls to bend her head back, throat exposed and breath rattling past her teeth.

“I think you need a lesson in  _ respect _ , young lady. Soft, spoiled little ass like yours needs harder discipline.” A pause, voice dropping from harsh to only mild gravel. “Lynne, may I use a ruler?”

“Sure, as long as it’s not the kind with metal in it.” He relaxes his grip on her hair, so she twists to glance at him over her shoulder. “Ready whenever you are.”

Desmond snorts, shifting back in character and pulling his hand from between her legs. Her neck’s creaking now, an awkward crick from the angle so she turns back to glaring at the floor. Shuts her eyes; doesn’t want an actual blindfold, but the self-imposed darkness makes every soft rustle and metal scrape more ominous. Thrilling, pulse pounding in her ears and sweat trickling down the back of her thighs. Her panties are a sodden mass, must stink hot and sharp with arousal. Wonders if he can smell it with what’s left of his nose, but that thought goes skittering down the back alleys of her mind when she feels the smooth press of wood against the outer curve of her ass. She feels the chill of it through her jeans, or maybe that's just her imagination— either way, she bites her lip as he hefts the ruler. His left elbow resting on her back now, his fingers loose in her hair. Two experimental swishes slice the air, and she exhales through her nose. Not gonna give him the satisfaction of another yelp.

So when she hears the crisp  _ whoosh _ of it towards her buttocks, she keeps her lips tight-pressed. Gum bit between her back teeth. Falters when there’s only air and the heavy presence of his pulled strike.

“What the fuck, man? I thought you were—”

_ Now _ the smack, a bright line of pain across her ass and her caught with her fool mouth open and lungs full and  _ screaming _ over his smug chuckle. The gum falls forward, and she bites her teeth together just in time to catch it on her lips.

“Watch your mouth, young lady. I figure we’ll start with five strikes, but I’ll add more for every obscenity.”

“Fuck  _ you, _ professor dipshi—  _ auugh _ !” she bellows, another blow landing. Lower now, overlapping but not quite on where the first one hit. Panting hard, eyes filmed with tears, she nearly misses his next words.

“Was five. Now is five more, young lady. Any more words?”

“I am  _ sorry _ , professor,” she spits. Wishes she could say it’s defiance, but her mouth’s full, saliva collecting under her tongue and the sides of her cheek. A wet circle spattering on the floor, two inches shy of those ridiculous leather shoes that this pompous asshole must spend real time polishing for them to look so good this long after the bombs fell.

There’s a smile in his voice, tucked between his teeth like a dog with a scrap of meat. “I saw that, young lady. Must be a fucking idiot if you don’t think that’s worth another strike.”

Two more hits, so fast she doesn’t even have time to catch her breath between. Pain blurs, boundaries merging between the first and second hit. Lights up her world, like a damn beacon to the rest of her body— makes even the pull on her hair seem a small, distant thing. Less time to think, just  _ feel _ , body shaking and breath escaping in shudders. Crying now, cheeks wet. Gritty when she hiccups, blotting her face against her sleeve. Smearing the dirt on her face like smudged eyeliner.

“Four more. Fast or slow, Lynne?”

‘Lynne’ now, not ‘young lady,’ so she bites back the first word on her tongue. “Start slow, go faster.” Hates breaking the flow of the scene with this kind of check-in, but better than it skunking like beer.

“With only four hits?”

“I can cuss at you some more,” she offers.

“Do try not to spit on the shoes.” Amusement flavors his dry tone, and she thinks if her face was turned she might catch him shaking his head.

“Lemme get my gum out then.”

He lets go of her hair and the scrape of ceramic on metal tells her he’s picking up one of those dusty mugs. Holds it under her face with surprising care, resting the ruler on the dip of her spine and stroking the back of her neck. After she spits her gum, he puts the mug back on the desk with a clink.

She starts again, light and conversational. “So, professor, you eat shit or just got that natural stink to ya? And fuck you man, if you think corporal punishment’s ‘discipline’ you’re a real shit guy. Just begging for ‘might makes right’ instead of any sort of actual moral authority. Just like being older’n balls doesn’t mean I gotta automatically  _ respect _ you, asshole.” Takes another breath; half-surprised he's not already spanking, but then again the tremor in his thighs might be him holding back laughter. “Also, your suit’s ugly and so’s your face. I shit turds prettier’n you. And your moustache—”

“Don’t insult the moustache, young lady,” he snaps, turning the chuckle to a pained wheeze as he thumps his chest. “Gonna teach you some fucking manners, see if  _ this _ sinks into your empty skull.”

He starts slow, like she requested— one hard smack, then laying his palm over the impact. Too light to soothe, too heavy to ignore, fingers tracing circles against the seam of her jeans. She is just starting to recover when he grabs the ruler and lays a second blow. Then a third, not even bothering to touch her between strikes. She groans past her teeth, eyes shut. World narrowing to just the sharp bright bursts of pain, like a fireworks show centered over her ass. Red and white splotches across her vision, hot slickness down her cunt and  _ god _ , oh fucking  _ god _ she’s riding this hard, thighs pressed tight and ankles crossed and  _ close,  _ so damn  _ close _ when he grabs the back of her shirt and the folds dig into her chest and belly. No finesse now, just hard strikes and he’s panting too as he goes again, again, and—

—the fucking ruler snaps in two as she screams, “ _ Desmond _ !”

He drops the pieces with a clatter, pulling her upright and twisting her to sit in his lap. “You all right, Lynne?”

“Fuck, yeah. Just—  _ fuck _ man, that was intense.” Her knees hooked over one side of his lap, her back supported against his forearm, her poor tender ass suspended between— not light enough to take the pressure off, not when she’d  _ really _ rather not be sitting right now, but…. shit, the effort’s appreciated. “That was really damn good. Just hit my limit.”

“Got what you wanted?”

“Yeah, man. Feel good.  _ Real _ good.” Mouth feels too wet, all her words slurry. Damn endorphins.

“You okay to keep going, if it’s not spanking?”

“Yeah, no more pain shit. Dirty talk’s good.”

“May I finger you then?”

She pulls back, raises an eyebrow. Notes the way what’s left of his hair is plastered to his scalp. Huh. Didn’t know ghouls could sweat. “Sure. I like it in the ass too, but only if you lube it up. And still no dicks.” His erection’s pressing against her thigh, a pulse of warmth. Probably was rubbing her hip during that spanking session, but she’d been too caught up in the sensations to notice.

“Good to me.”

He folds her wrists in his hand, tugs her to her feet. Escorts her to the desk, all four steps of the way. Would tease him for the chivalry except for how limp and noodly her limbs feel. When he guides her in place, settling her forearms on the desk and reaching around to unfasten her jeans, she relaxes. Enjoys the feel of his skin on her belly, the dig of the zipper against her mound when he unzips her. The cool air on her ass as he pulls her pants down, then her panties.

“Gonna have some marks, young lady.” Sounds admiring, fingers on her thigh and tracing lines across her ass.

She shivers. “You know I got good marks, professor.”

“Well, it was never your education I doubted. God, you smell like a whorehouse. Like you’re begging for it.” Lowers his hand, slipping through the slick coating her thighs. Then up, finger nestling between her folds but not quite entering. His other hand on her shoulder now, like an anchor. “How many boys gone up your wet hole?”

“Doesn’t matter if it’s fifty dicks or one dick fifty times, now does it? Can’t shame me when I got nothing to be ashamed about.” Hard to keep the fire going, not when she’s all wobbly like this, but  _ god _ his voice turns her on. Goes straight to her clit, like she can get off on sound alone.

Fortunately, she doesn’t have to when he slides his finger in. She keens, nails scrabbling against the desk as she bucks against him. Hardly any resistance, too wet and aroused to offer even a token fight. Feels dangerously close to fucking, but she trusts him to keep to their terms. Tastes salt on her lips, copper and metal tang as his hot breath rasps on her ear.

“Cunt this good must’ve had lots of practice. Fuck, the things I’d do if you weren’t my student.” He mouths her earlobe, too much lip to be a bite and too much teeth to be a kiss. Probes his tongue in the hollow behind her ear, exhales slow to send shivers all up her spine. “But I got a strict policy of not fucking my students. Even the ones that would like it.” She shivers dark against him, eyes shut. Maybe some other time, but not now. He doesn’t press the issue though, instead deliberately cool as he commands, “Play with your clit, young lady.”

“Fuck you, professor,” she mutters, but it’s purely formality. No sense depriving herself, even for play-spite. Hitches her hips back, thrusting onto his finger— wedges her hand between her legs, leaning into her forearm as she presses her fingers over her slippery clit. Not even rubbing, but a slow fluttering pulse. Something to heat herself up, not to go over the edge.

“Keep mouthing off and I’m sticking this up your ass.”

“ _ Fuck you _ ,” she blurts, rising on her toes. All but wagging herself at him, and that sorry jackass must be smirking but  _ hell _ if she cares, not when he takes that wet finger out, her own juices lubing him up as he presses to her outer ring. She bites her hand, an obscene moan escaping anyway.

He thrusts, and she accepts greedily. Such a small thing, that finger, but so damn intense as she presses her clit and he starts working his way back and forth. Barely more than rocking, not even to the first knuckle, but she already knows she wants more.

“Don’t you fucking dare stick that any farther, professor,” she grits past her hand, toes curling in her boots. The jeans around her knees means she can’t spread her legs any wider for him, but she bends her shoulders flat to the desk. 

“You’re not calling the shots here, young lady.” And he pushes, harder now— her body shaking, tremors running all down her cunt and into her ass, gripping his finger tight as he works to the second knuckle. She picks up the pace with her own fingers, one on each side of her clit and rubbing hard circles. Almost misses her cue when he keeps talking. “Just be glad I don’t have my chalkboard pointer with me, or I’d  _ really _ give you a lesson.”

“On what? Unfavorable comparisons to your dick?”

“Shut up and go faster, girl. I want you to make yourself come.” The hand on her shoulder drifts over, tugs her ear. An unfamiliar burn across her cheeks at this strange familiarity. “I want you to come knowing your professor’s finger’s in your ass. And I’ll be feeling every tremor, every fucking spasm of your dirty little hole.” She grinds against her hand, eyes closed and rubbing her fingers in tighter rings. “I’m gonna feel it all, and you’re gonna jill off to this for the rest of the fucking semester.”

Her rhythm’s failing, fingers going from circles to a sharp series of ups and downs on her clit as she crests closer to the edge. High, higher, then a muffled scream as she hits orgasm. Hot shudders wracking her body, juices smeared down her finger, her palm, her asshole spasming tight around him. His fingers jerk, like they’re trying to escape, and when he pulls out she’s amazed not to hear a pop.

“God damn, girl. Knew you had it in you,” he breathes, sitting back in the chair with a heavy thump. “Come here now. Kneel.” He unbuckles his belt, fingers slipping across the leather in his haste.

She rolls to the side, propping herself up on her hand. Damn desk digging into her hip as she eyes him with suspicion. “I said I’m not blowing you, Desmond.”

“Not expecting you to. Want to come on your face.”

Lynne chuckles, wiping a bedraggled strand of hair off her cheek. “Fine then.” Shuffles over, not even bothering to fasten her pants as she settles between his knees. Rests her arms on his thighs, face tilted up to study his face rather than his cock. He breathes through his mouth, short little rasps with his eyes shut. Breaths lengthening, heaving into his chest as he bites his lip. God, she could almost kiss him like this.

He doesn’t need much input from her, just jacking up and down with a loose fist. Grunts a warning as he gets close, so she closes her eyes and lets it hit her across the nose and chin. When he’s done, she cracks her eyes open and catches him with a lopsided grin.

“What are  _ you _ smiling at?”

“How fucking good you look with my cum dripping down your face.”

She snorts, grabbing his knee and burying her face against his slacks. He growls in protest, though doesn't stop her wiping herself clean on his pants. She loses his jizz, lifts some dirt in exchange.

“Disrespectful little shit.” But there’s affection there too, a surge of pride beneath the gunmetal bluster. “How’s your ass?”

“Not gonna be sitting down for a while, that’s for sure. But feels good.” Doesn’t even want to pull her panties back up, not when the cotton’s gonna chafe like hell over that sensitive skin.

“Feel free to take a spare cot. I’ll be picking through Calvert’s notes for a while anyway.” He cups his hand under her chin, thumb pressed to the soft underside of her jaw. Fingers splayed across her cheek. “Got coffee and that shitty junk food you like, if you want some.”

“You fucking asshole. Watch out, I’ll start thinking you actually care.”

The skin around his eyes—or what’s left of it— crinkles, a tendon on his cheek pulling taut. “Heaven forbid.”


End file.
